


Myrddin Emrys

by supercalvin



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Suicide, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 11:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2227524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercalvin/pseuds/supercalvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emrys \’em-rys\<br/>Welsh; from the Greek name Ambrosius; meaning immortal</p>
            </blockquote>





	Myrddin Emrys

**Author's Note:**

> If you do not want to be sad, do. not. read. this.  
> I am serious. I do not want to make anyone sad or trigger anyone. I made the appropriate warnings, even though all the harm is not permanent and the archive warnings will deter many people, but I rather no one read it than I hurt anyone.  
> That being said, this is one of my headcanons, sorry its sad.

Sir Percival rode to the valley which lay before of the Lake of Avalon. He rode hard through the woods, although his stead was weary from the long ride it had endured. The land was quiet as if the trees had ceased to grow and the wind had stilled. Clouds didn’t move in the sky and the sun held firm where it rested, just before dusk.

The clearing before the Lake of Avalon was as a tunnel to a crypt and the noiselessness was the beating of a dirge. Sir Percival dismounted off his horse, his bones aching with the grief of losing Sir Gwaine and dreading what lay ahead of him. There was hardly a sound in the air; the waters along the shore were hushed and the wind rose only to caress the grass for a moment.

The knight’s body knew what his mind refused to acknowledge. His fingers would not keep steady and his heart pounded faster in his chest. His mind knew that if his King were alive, the land would not be as silent. Sir Percival took a moment to pray to hear the Merlin mock the King, only then would he know that all was well.

His legs took him to the Lake’s edge where he saw a form collapsed upon the sodden grass. In the distance he saw something on the Lake’s waters and he denied to himself what it must be.

The knight’s footsteps were completely muffled by the land’s silence. He whispered out the manservant’s name, loud enough to hear but echoing in his mind as the man did not answer. He called out the name again, his voice a cacophony in the silence.

Sir Percival approached the form on the Lake’s shores and he saw that the grass beneath Merlin was soaked, not in the Lake’s water but in blood. For the second time that day, the knight fell to his knees and called out the name of a friend who he could not help. The manservant’s hands clutched around Excalibur, the gold engraving tarnished with dried blood and his hands deeply cut by the sharp edges. It was Merlin’s blood cover chest that no longer moved, his softly shut eyes, and his tightly closed hands around Arthur’s blade, which proved to Sir Percival that the King was dead.

The knight let his hand press to Merlin’s cheek, white and cold as snow, as he let out an anguished sound. It did not break the land’s dirge, but expanded its song.

Out on the Lake he knew that Arthur’s body was just as cold. His arms shook as if he had been laboring for hours and his legs ached as if he had run for miles. Swallowing his own feeling, as a knight of Camelot, Sir Percival followed his King’s wishes. Unhooking his cloak, setting it on the ground beside his fallen friend, he did what the King would have wished. With great care, he took the blade from Merlin’s hands and laid the servant onto the Pendragon cloak. He said a prayer to the gods for the great King and his loyal friend. Arthur’s body was already at rest, the knight knew that Merlin would have given his King what he would have wanted from his death and resting. Now Percival would bring Merlin’s body back to Camelot, where the kingdom could mourn him and his King.

It took all of Sir Percival’s strength to gather wood and start a fire by the Lake of Avalon. He rested his weary body and he let himself mourn as the sun set. He mourned Sir Gwaine as he put kindling in the fire and struck it ablaze; the spark reminding him of his fiery friend. He mourned the King as the sun set beyond the hills; the light reminding him of Arthur’s hope. He mourned Merlin as he watched the fire; the flames reminding him of Merlin’s warmth.

It was while the fire was at its warmest, after the wood had created coals, when the magic appeared. Sir Percival felt the magic before he saw it. His heart tightened then he felt warmth settle around his shoulders as if a blanket had been placed around him. A breeze blew across the fire and embers caught in the air. The magic had neither appearance that could be described with colors nor any sound that could play with any instrument. It looked the way a warm golden wheat field shone in the sun and sounded like jesting amongst close friends. The knight had never experienced such magic as this.

It circled around Merlin’s bloodied body where it lay next to the fire. Sir Percival jerked up from where he had been sitting and gave a shout for the magic to let the fallen rest in peace. Then the magic disappeared into the body, filling every crevice and coating it in light, warmth pulsing off the magic like a fire of its own.

The body jerked, the chest cracking as the place where Excalibur pierced mended back together. More magic surged from the ground, from the lake, and from the sky. It coiled around the knight as if it felt his presence, before it settled into Merlin’s body.

A sob choked out of the body and the land’s dirge halted immediately. The wind drove the clouds overhead, as it flowed through the woods once again. Merlin’s body curled into itself for an elongated moment as another shudder ran through his body and another sob broke his chest.

Like lightening, he lurched upright, his eyes wide open and his chest moving heavily with labored breathing. His eyes were bright as the sun, the magic flowing easily through his body and the land, as if they were one.

The knight called out Merlin’s name again, fear creeping into his tone and uncertainty at what he had just witnessed.

Merlin looked at his chest, felt it with his hand, and Sir Percival knew that there was no longer a wound in his chest, nor were there any more lesions on his palms.

Merlin screamed for the gods to take him. He gripped his shirt, soiled with the blood that had drained him of life.  He pleaded to Avalon to drown him in the waters where Arthur waited. He cried out again and again, his voice muffled and choked.

He picked up the sword which had been lying next to his body. Sir Percival jumped forward, certain that Merlin would try to fall on the blade a second time if given the chance. But Merlin hurled the sword into the Lake of Avalon. Magic swirled around the sword and as it was about to fall into the water a hand rose from the Lake and gripped the pommel. Merlin gasped out a sound, of despair or joy, Sir Percival did not know. Though he could barely comprehend how Merlin was alive or how magic worked in the land, he was certain that it was Arthur who had caught the sword. With his hands Merlin covered his mouth, but that did not stop the tears.

Sir Percival’s body reacted while his mind was miles away. Stepping across the dwindling fire, he held onto Merlin as he trembled and anguish ripped through his chest. He choked out in despair until Percival could feel his lungs shudder with the lack of breathes and his sobs turned into shaking breaths and silent tears.

Sir Percival did not speak. Words were not appropriate for any mourning. Language could not begin to describe such sorrow that lay inside Merlin’s bones. Instead he held Merlin and cried silently, as he felt his friend breathe. Sir Gwaine was dead, the King was gone, and there might be breath in his lungs and magic in his soul, but Merlin was just as lifeless.

It was that night that defined the name Emrys. The gods had said that the name was as they were, infinite and limitless. It was only after Merlin awoke by the Lake of Avalon, his blood stained on Excalibur and his chest unmarred, that Emrys was defined. Merlin’s loyalty to Arthur would never cease, and neither would his life until his King returned to him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The first time I watched the last episode, when Merlin holds up Excalibur, I was completely convinced Merlin was going to fall on it. Quite literally, I screamed at my laptop, but then he threw it into the lake and my heart did a little jump of sad joy.   
> The producers of the show have also come out and said that the hand in the Lake is supposed to be Freya (the Lady of the Lake) but I ignore that because I'm convinced it's Arthur.


End file.
